


hate

by kittenscully



Series: fictober 2020 [22]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: (again only sort of), (sort of), Angst, Dark Mulder, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masturbation, POV Fox Mulder, Post-Episode: s04e13 Never Again, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, it's not as bad as it sounds...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenscully/pseuds/kittenscully
Summary: He would throw himself into moving traffic before he would hurt her or allow her to be hurt. And so, as always, the only outlet for the violence is his own body.[fictober day 22]
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: fictober 2020 [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1949467
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	hate

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Just say it."

Every time he looks at her, he sees it, shameless in technicolor. Every time he blinks, the images come in bursts. Blue bruises, red lipstick. 

On the other side of the desk, Scully is coiled and dangerous in magenta, a fusion of the two. Vulnerable and decisive, beautiful and stiff. An agent of her own impulse and a victim of someone else’s. 

When she spares him a glance, it is cruel in its disinterest. And yet, she stays. 

There’s nothing new about the witches’ brew of emotions curdling in his gut, nor about the shame he feels in response to every single one. The rage is expected, the jealousy familiar. The protective fear is a comfort. The underlying current of confusion, the little kid who just keeps asking why, is no different from any other day. 

It’s the arousal that Mulder can’t deal with. 

He wants to bend her over his desk. He wants to prostrate himself at her feet. He wants to fuck her like he’s someone else, someone who doesn’t love her. He wants her to fuck him like she’s disgusted by the sight of him.

Every time he’s thought of her as cold, it was only a projection of his own coldness, or else wishful thinking. A weak attempt to convince himself that she isn’t flesh and blood, soft and malleable, desiring and desirable. 

Now, she’s left him with no choice but to face that she is all of those things.

She stands to leave for the night at 5pm sharp, and he knows that she’s done nothing wrong. But he hates her with the kind of violence he reserves only for hatred of himself. 

“Goodnight, Mulder.” The proud tilt to her chin, the neat little line of her waist as she adjusts her jacket. 

He says nothing, thinks, _fuck you_. He imagines the perverse satisfaction of her slapping him, hating him back like he deserves, and thinks, _just say it_. 

He says nothing. He is already hard. 

Four years of pretending that she doesn’t exist in that context, just to keep himself in line. Four years of Orwellian doublethink. Four years of seeing her sexless and picturesque, of bombarding himself with porn stars who look nothing like her when the faintest scent of her on his clothes makes him impossibly hard. Four years of pointedly refusing to want her, and being unable to want anyone else.

Four years of stopping himself, painfully, as she infiltrated every fantasy, hand around his throat or thighs around his head.

And now, every time he looks at her, he sees it. 

Even if Scully knew how he tries not to think of her, she would keep coming back. There is nothing he can do to shake her off. The only choice is to rub himself clean. 

The door clicks shut. 

He waits ten minutes in absolute silence. 

There’s a tape in his desk drawer that he should use, but he already knows that he won’t. The very idea is repulsive. Going back to his apartment would be safer, but he can’t do what he’s about to do there. Not on the couch that is as much hers, now, as it is his.

In his mind’s eye, she is pinned to a wall by Jerse’s hands. He’s seen the bruises. He’s seen, too, that she wanted them. Not the ones he beat onto her skin the next day, in the throes of psychosis, but the ones that he left on her wrists, her hips. 

She has to know that Jerse hated her then, too. Mulder suspects, perversely, that Jerse’s barely contained hatred is what made her want him, and his teeth shudder with inconsolable anger. 

It is the very thought that she should never be touched by cruelty that makes him violent. 

He would throw himself into moving traffic before he would hurt her or allow her to be hurt. And so, as always, the only outlet for the violence is his own body. 

This time, he won’t deflect or transfer. He will think only and completely of her, after four years of avoiding it at all costs. And it will be punishment and catharsis, flagellation for his flaws and a discharge of his unrighteous fury at the one good part of him, bruised and bloodied by another man as she wore his clothing. 

He will do it to protect her from himself. And when he’s done, nothing will ever be as it was before.

On his desk, his gun, unholstered. In his lap, his cock, exposed. Both angry, both pointing directly towards his chest. Both visible, tangible reminders of the only person worthy of his hate.

He wraps his fist around himself, too tight, and begins. 


End file.
